


Violent Letters

by RumourWrites



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Child Neglect, Child Spencer Reid, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Spencer Reid at College
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:55:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26412235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RumourWrites/pseuds/RumourWrites
Summary: Spencer is acting out of character.  He's not shown up to work.  He's not answering the team's texts and calls.  Could the answer lie in a stack of violent, violet letters?
Comments: 21
Kudos: 114





	1. Violet Letters

_“Spence? Spencer?”_

_“You here kid? Reid?”_

_“Spence?”_

JJ unlocked the door to Reid’s top floor apartment, using the key stowed under a ficus plant in the hallway. She moved cautiously into the darkened room, hand resting preemptively on her holster, Morgan close behind her. He had missed work. Two days in a row. That wasn’t like him. He had ignored all of the team's texts and calls. That wasn’t like him. Now, as JJ stood in the book-lined walls of his home, surveying the mess of coffee cups, dirty dishes and books strewn all over the place, she realised a lot of Spencer’s behaviour recently was out of character.

Glancing back at Morgan, JJ continued to creep towards the bathroom door. The only room in the apartment to have a slither of light emanating from the door frame. Mentally, she braced herself for the worst-case possibility of what could be in that room. Horrible mental images of Spence keeled over, pale. Of needles and vials and all sorts of horrible paraphernalia. But, alas, she let out a sigh upon finding the bathroom completely empty. Relief.

Turning, she began to follow Morgan’s lead towards the bedroom door, which was left slightly ajar. Morgan’s gun was raised, as he slowly worked his way down the darkened hallway, floorboards creaking with every careful step. He swung into the room with a solid movement, ready to face any eventuality that waited for them in the master bedroom. It was empty. After carefully checking the room, investigating any hiding spaces, Derick slid his gun back into the holster at his hip. He turned to JJ, his hand going to cradle the back of his head, a look of confusion on his dark features.

_“Look in the wardrobe, his drawers. The place has been cleaned out.”_

_“And in a hurry. Look at the state of it. Spence, he’d never leave his place like this if he could help it. I once saw him use a ruler to make sure everything on his desk was spaced out in uniform.”_

JJ let her hands brush across a shirt, dangling haphazardly out of the mahogany dresser, to prove her point. The room looked as if it had been raided. Books, shirts, pants, an array of weird and wonderful socks Reid had become known for. They all littered the room. The dark purple cover of the bed flopped half on the floor. JJ knew that it was normally left made neatly. Spence was a neat freak. He was terrified of germs, he liked his things to be a certain way. The wardrobe was sparing, with large chunks of his clothes having been removed.

_“What the hell is the kid up to?”_

_“You think this was him? I mean, why would he just up and leave? If he was in trouble he would have come to us. He knows we would do anything to help him.”_

_“You think someone’s broken in to steal a selection of the kids finest sweater vests?”_

JJ gave Morgan a desperate look. Under normal circumstances, she would find Morgan’s friendly ribbing of Reid cute. But she had an overwhelming sense something was wrong. None of this made sense, not to her, not to anyone. She made her way back through to the living room, Morgan following behind, already on the phone to Garcia. Stopping at Spencer’s desk, she surveyed the paperwork that covered tabletop. The chair was pushed way out as if someone had left the desk in a rush. It was entirely in disarray. Case files all mixed together, bills and personal correspondence where all mixed in the mele. She began to dig through the drawers methodically, looking for anything that stood out to her.

Maybe he’d left a letter like Gideon.

There was a stack of bills, all marked Paid from his mother’s care facility in Las Vegas, bound together with an elastic band. Various correspondence with academics who consulted him on papers. A few postcards from Lila Archer. A faded letter from his father. It wasn’t until she got to the bottom drawer that JJ found the letters. Two stacks of purple envelopes, both bound together with string. Only a few of the letters seemed to have been opened in each stack. One was older, clearly lightened and curled by the passing of years. The other, seemed new. The colours were still vibrant, the address still legible.

_“You got anything there Jayje? Because apart from the mess, I can’t see a single sign of there being a struggle here. No blood, no smashed tables, no forced entry on the door.”_

_“Not much here. Some letters, bills, he sure does take a lot of work home with him.”_

_“Pen’s going to see if she can trace him through spending, she’s already got an APB out on his car.”_

Morgan tried to make eye contact with JJ, who kept her eye’s downcast as she swept through the contents of Reid’s desk.

_“Hey, JJ, he’s gonna be alright. We don’t actually know if anything is wrong yet.”_

JJ was about to lift her eyes to meet Morgan, to return his reassurance when she caught sight of something buried under a stack of papers. A glimpse of purple. Bending down over closer to the chaotic desk, she snaked the violet envelope out of the paper tower with her nimble fingers. A frown had already begun to form on her lips. She held the envelope up and arched an eyebrow at Morgan.

_“What you got”_

Morgan began to move towards JJ, eyeing up the envelope quizzically. His hand reached out JJ ready to inspect what she had found.

_“I think it’s a clue.”_


	2. Violent Discoveries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fourteen-year-old Spencer Reid discovers his first violet letter.

**Pasadena. California Institute of Technology. 1994.**

It was not unusual, in the slightest, for Spencer to receive letters from people he didn’t know. He reminded himself this when the second one and then the third one arrived.

He was a genius. Or that is what many proclaimed him. He was extremely well known in many academic circles. People often wrote him letters of encouragement, asking questions, inviting him to academic conferences. All the damn time. Yes, normally they were addressed to his department at CalTech, not to his dorm room. Yes, they were normally strictly business, not really taking such a deep interest in his personal life. But, he still did receive them. Quite Regularly.

Maybe the person writing him had gotten confused. Like his Mom did sometimes. Maybe they had seen a few of the press pieces written about him and where curious. His mother always said there were adventures to be had if you were willing to pursue them.

Maybe this person was just out looking for a little adventure. 

He didn’t necessarily know how he felt about being someone's adventure. But, he really wasn’t in a position to judge other people on their actions. He knew he struggled to pick up on most basic of social structures. This very well could be one of those things, one of those things that other people did and he didn’t understand. He pushed it to the back of his mind. He was busy.

Spencer was close to finishing his first PhD in Mathematics and was a good way through a second in Engineering. He liked the way that everything fits nicely in those areas. Formulas nicely defined how things will work and there is little deviation from that. E will always equal MC Squared. People, unfortunately, did not seem to be this way to Spencer. There was no formula to understand ever-changing social cues or emotions. There aren’t many things out there that he didn't understand. But he knew he didn’t understand people.

The violet letter first found its way into his dorm pigeonhole a few weeks after he returned from a summer break in Vegas. Addressed to him in that spidery scrawl. They might have actually been in there for some time. Spencer didn’t regularly check the pigeonhole, unless, he was expecting a letter from his mother. But she wasn’t doing too well recently. In fact, Spencer had been unsure if he should return to California at all, after what he had witnessed at home. 

At the beginning of the summer, he had made the journey back to his home town on an overheated greyhound bus.

The entire journey he felt like his entire body was made out of wax, melting in the scorching desert heat. Although excited to see his mother again, he couldn't help the uncomfortable twist of his stomach. It had been six months since he had been home. It hadn't the merriest of Christmases and he could tell by her sporadic letters and calls following the holiday, she was deteriorating. Becoming increasingly agitated and paranoid about being overheard by the government on their phone calls, that they were in danger.

Just looking down the garden pathway at the cosy two-bedroom bungalow they shared once with his father – he could see it screamed of neglect.

The small front yard hard yellowing grass that reached the tops of his calves, weeds smattered the small gravel path to the front door and most worryingly, it appeared his mother had tin foiled completely over the jalousie windows. Standing at the chainlink gate, Spencer ran this fingers through this slicked mop of brown hair. He had to take a breath. Focus on the sound of the crickets chirping in the hot night air. He could deal with whatever was waiting for him inside. He had too. 

And it was bad.

Diana couldn't be convinced it was him. Not by reason, not by begging, not by crying. Too her, Spencer had been stolen by some governmental programme and the boy in their home was an imposter. Her attacks where really a testament to her vigorous love of Spencer, how hard she would be willing to fight to protect her son. From imaginary danger, but danger none the less. 

The entire trip home was cyclical, starting at Diana’s disbelief that he was the real Spencer, a vicious outburst, a brief moment of clarity and repeat. As much as he loved his mother, he cut his stay short by several weeks to escape the endless persecution. Though, the purple and yellow markings around his right eye served as a reminder – not that he could forget.

So suffice to say, he wasn’t on the look-out for any correspondence.

When found, he knew immediately the violet letter wasn’t from Diana. Her scrawl closely resembled his own chicken scratch font. Her letters came in thin University of Las Vegas envelopes she had accumulated during her career as a senior lecturer there. He knew it wasn’t from his Uncle Daniel, who preferred a sporadic phone call to check he was alright. His Aunt Ethel wrote in much more elaborate cursive.

The idea hit him that it could be from his father. William, as he called him in his own head as an attempt to detach himself from the man, had not contacted him in four years. Since he had left. He couldn't tell if it was relief or disappointment he felt when it was discovered that the letter wasn’t from him. Next, he only felt confusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should I write more??


	3. Violet Letter Blooms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first violet letter

_Dear Spencer,_

_First of all, I believe congratulations will soon be in order. Very soon you will earn your first doctorate. At the tender age of fourteen, none the less. It is no surprise to me, I have known you are special for a very long time now. From the moment I first heard about you I knew. I said to myself at that moment, that you were destined to achieve great things, to be a great, great man._

_The story of how I found you, is very interesting. At least, to me it is. You see, long before I ever saw you I knew about the twelve-year-old prodigy from a Las Vegas public school. I still have the news piece, believe it or not! I’m not one to collect clippings, particularly from low brow news publications. But I knew when I saw you, almost drowning in that oversized cap and gown, face frozen in an expression of sheepish joy, I knew you were unlike any other person out there. You looked so happy in the published photos, posing with your classmates. Were you sad to leave your friends at Las Vegas High? Or did you find your intellect was a barrier between you and your peers? Did it make them envious of you?_

_I know I was extremely envious of you. Such an amazing gift bestowed on someone so young. I wished I could have been you so badly. But I am no longer jealous, I now know that only you could carry this gift._  
_Only you._

_You certainly made waves in your first year here. Everyone knew about the child in the mathematics department who solved the Hodge conjecture in his first few weeks. You were the talk of the campus. Men have dedicated their lives to achieve your kind of mental ability. And fallen short._

_I did worry though, about you being so young. The world is a dangerous and nasty place. That’s why I started to look out for you because despite having the brightest academic ability perhaps ever possessed by a single human being, you are still a child._  
_Children are vulnerable._

_I missed you over summer, taking care of you has taken up so much of my time, I was at a loss when you weren't here. So I have to admit, I was overjoyed when you returned early. I felt like I was whole again. I am interested in the reason why you cut your summer short. I hope everything is okay at home. Perhaps you missed the world of academia too much? I admire your drive for education._

_I am excited what the year ahead has in store for you. For us._

_I will continue to watch over you._

_D._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol another one. Thoughts?


	4. Violent Mysteries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of the BAU dissect the mystery that is Spencer Reid.

**Present day. Quantico, Virgina.**

_“What did you find”_

Hotch’s tone resembled his usual clipped, efficient style of conversation but with an added edge of worry what only bleeds through when one of the teams own were facing danger. The ever-present frown was only accentuated by the worry lines knitted deep between his eyebrows. JJ and Morgan had just returned to the office following their excursion to Reid’s apartment. It was now late, and the rest of the BAU bullpen was empty. Only Hotch’s office light was illuminated, staying late to work on his unrelenting stack of files.

He knew by the expression on JJ and Morgan’s faces that their trip to Reid’s had turned up bad news. Worry gripped at his bones. He remained stoic. JJ held up a singular purple envelope, that matched the stack Morgan had clutched between his arm and body. 

_“We have a problem”_

_“Big-time”_

Hotch closed the distance between him and his agents quickly, taking the letter out of JJ’s hand. His eyebrow was cocked, frown deepened. Pulling out the thick pages encased in the envelope, Hotch scanned the contents of the lengthy letter. It took him a few minutes to fully process the contents of the letter, and what that meant for his agent. His eyes lifted from the pages to meet JJ and Morgan’s tense expressions, mirroring his own.

_“ How many of these are there?”_

_“Recent ones? About ten…”_

_“Recent ones?”_

_“Hotch, they go back years.”_

Morgan’s voice took on a hard calmness, often reserved for the hardest of cases. 

_“Did either of you …”_

_“Know about this? No. Normally I can read Spence like a book._ _He never mentioned_ … “ JJ’s voice simmered out, as she tried to identify the right words to describe what was going on, hands out, palms up, as if physically searching. _“This. He never mentioned any of this”_ she finished lamely.

_“I’ll call Emily.”_

With that Hotch turned, snapping his cell to his ear already on the line to Emily. In tense silence, the pair walked towards the meeting room, ready to place the vicious letters in the centre of the round table and dissect their contents. JJ stood looking at them for a moment and then moved to begin scrubbing the whiteboard in the corner of the room, removing the scribbles left from an already solved case. Once clear, she bit the lid off a marker and began scrawling along the board. 

**UNSUB: D (only known moniker)**

**Years Active: 1994 – present.**

**Sex: Male?**

She stared furiously at the board for a few seconds, unable to identify what else they knew about the bastard. She bit down on her lip, before abruptly turning and throwing the marker at a wall, enraged. It made a clattering sound, shattering the silence of the room, before falling onto the grey office carpet.

_“Shit!”_

Frustration flooded her petite features.

_“Jayje…”_

_“I can't believe he didn’t tell us. I can’t believe he kept this to himself. After everything we have been through as a team. As a family. And now he’s just disappeared. Why can’t he just trust us, like a normal damn person.”_

_“JJ whatever’s in those letters, he didn’t want anyone to know about. Clearly, or he would have come to us. This is something personal for Reid, something he couldn't tell us.”_

_“Oh but I operate underneath the belief that my family can come to me about anything. Really. Our resident genius could have told me he’d killed someone and I’d help him hide the body. I know I shouldn't say things like that in an FBI office, but I totally would.”_

Morgan’s eyes whipped around to see Penelope standing in the doorway of the room, a file clutched tightly over her chest, bright yellow dress and fuchsia accessories creating a stark contrast to the grey, businesslike tones of the BAU offices. Her eyes, already magnified by her thick-rimmed glasses, were wide and swimming with worry. Penelopy didn’t take well to the darkness that was everpresent in their line of work. She struggled so much more when a member of their little makeshift family was the one caught up in wickedness. Ignoring the outstanding inappropriateness of her last comment, Morgan moved towards her.

_“BabyGirl, everyone has parts of them they want to hide.”_

_“I know, I know that._

_I just….when it’s….I don’t like…”_

Penelopy closed her eyes and took a deep breath, rooting herself in the current moment. 

_“We need to help Reid. We don’t have time for me to be crying my adorable little eyes out. Okay, so, I’ve done some work on tracing Reid. You guys know I hate getting all big brother in your lives, but this is an emergency.”_

_“What did you find?”_

_“Nothing. Nada. Absolutely nothing. His cards haven’t been used in days, his last purchase was at a coffee cart near his subway stop. No large withdrawals, no travel purchases.”_

Garcia began to move into the room, taking on the rapid-fire pattern of speech usually heard by the team via cell-phone conversations on cases. Morgan could tell that she wasn’t giving them the full rundown. There was rarely anything she couldn't find when she put her mind to it. And he knew on a case like this, Garcia was like a trained bloodhound with a sent.

_“Come on now, there has to be something?”_

_“Of course I found something. I am me. There are phone calls, two of them. All from Monday, when our little junior g-man didn’t show up for work. The first was incoming from an unregistered cell, no associations to the number, but it did bounce off a cell tower in Pasadena. Then we have a second call, made by Reid to a landline in Las Vegas city limits. Now I could find out who owned this line, and that is Daniel Harries, who, it turns out to be not only Reid’s Uncle but Godfather. Who he has mysteriously never mentioned to any of us before”_

_Penelope sped up significantly at the end of her revelation as if forcing out information she didn't want to. She truly did hate when she had to reveal her friend's secrets behind their backs. As much as she hated them having secrets._

_“What?”_

_“Well, it looks like good old Uncle Dan has a bit of a record with the Las Vegas police department. All white-collar stuff, casino fraud, drunk and disorderly. He was actually represented by Reid’s dad a few times… until around nineteen-ninety. Which I assume is when... anyway. He seems to be in contact with our g-man only once in every blue moon, calls on Birthday or Christmas, that kind of a thing.”_

JJ moved back towards the whiteboard and began writing up a section on Daniel Harries. Her usually neat, precise handwriting was skewed by the shaking of her hand. It felt like her brain was going into overdrive, creating a painful throb at the nape of her neck. How, how could she have been best friends with Spencer for the best part of a decade, and yet there was a whole side of his life she wasn’t privy to. He was the godfather to her children. The discoveries of the last few hours felt like a fever dream to her. It wasn’t right. None of this made sense to her.

_“It sounds like there is a lot about the good doctor that we don’t know.”_

JJ turned her head, sending gold strands of hair flying, to see Emily and Rossi standing in the entrance to the room, expressions of astonishment etched upon their faces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much dialogue. I hate writing it, you probably hate reading it. But how else does one conveniently get across plot points?
> 
> I'm not too sure whats going on in this story any more but I think it's going to get a little darker. Will update any warnings in the tags if that's the case tho.
> 
> Sorry Spencie xoxo
> 
> As always pls leave feedback even if it's mean.


	5. Violet Birthdays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer comes to terms with the letters.

**Pasadena. California Institute of Technology. 1994.**

Spencer knew there was a lot not normal about him and his situation. Normal children couldn't read 20,000 words per minute. Normal children didn’t attend one of the most prestigious academic facilities on the planet. Normal children weren't left to fend for themselves in a foreign state from the age of thirteen.

That last one was a bit of an over-exaggeration, but he did like to be a little dramatic sometimes. He wasn't actually left to fend for himself. One of the stipulations of Caltech letting him move there unsupervised was that he lived in a catered dorm with strict curfews and that he meets weekly with a counsellor to check that he was adjusting to life away from home in a healthy way. He thought this was a bit pointless, seeing as for the majority of his life he has been responsible for taking care of not just himself but his mother to. But, he didn’t think sharing this information as a counter-argument to the stipulation was a wise thing to do.

Doctor Vaughn, a balding ex-psychologist with a flair for wearing entirely too much corduroy for the hot Californian weather and an office that seemed to always smell overpoweringly of chai tea, was actually a very endearing man to Spencer. He didn’t really pry into his life, more contented seeing him turn up looking outwardly healthy and well adjusted to his new life as an academic superstar. The two would spend their weekly, hour-long sessions playing various board games such as Scrabble, Go or Chess and idly chatting out the last episode of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine. Overall, Spencer found them very enjoyable.

Of course, this was not the intended use of these allotted sessions. Spencer was supposed to speak about his feelings, things that worried him, made him sad, things that Spencer was not a huge fan of articulating. The only actual problem Spencer had gone to Doctor Vaughn about in his first year was the fact he needed an adult to accompany him and sign out his inhaler prescription from the nearby family clinic. Which Vaughn kindly now collects for him when due. But, Spencer had a funny feeling these letters might turn into the second problem.

So, in the brief break between is morning classes and afternoon session in Vaughn’s moss green office, Spencer packed the letters into the leather satchel that was comically large on him still. It had been a Highschool Graduation gift from his Aunt Ethel because in her own words, now he was off to become a doctor many times over, he needed to look a little more distinguished. And the beat-up Jansport backpack he previously toted about apparently did not give off the correct vibe, according to her.

Leaving his small dorm room, Spencer made the choice to walk to Vaughn’s office on the other side of campus. Normally, he would bike over to save time, but today the knot in his stomach was twisted to tight to even look at the doors of the dining hall, so he guessed he had time to spare. He’d been receiving the letters for about two months now, six in total had arrived. The last one arrived on his birthday last week, left in his pidgin hole with a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. 

Once the brown paper had been cautiously ripped open, Spencer took some time to evaluate the peculiar little paperback pocketbook inside. It was clearly very old, the parchment pages yellowed and curled at the corners. It was also very thin, only amounting to about twenty pages or so. Intricate, hand-drawn artworks of witches, ghouls and other Celtic mythical creatures decorated the pages, around each stanza of a poem. 

He recognised it immediately. Halloween, by Robert Burns. It was widely considered to be one of the first works of literature about the October holiday. His mom always read it to him around this time of year, sharing her love of the spooky season with her son. The poem was written almost entirely in an old Scottish dialect, something his Mom had helped him decode when he was younger. 

Nobody could know that.

Nobody could know that his Mom read him this exact poem, at this exact time of year. 

It spooked him.

Mulling over the ramifications of receiving this gift made the hairs on the back of Spencer's neck stand straight up. Did this person know who Diana was? Did they know this was a holiday that had special memories for Spencer and his Mom? What else did they know about? How did they know it? 

It was the final straw in Spencer’s resolve to keep the letters private. He had to speak to some kind of an adult about this, show Mr Vaughn. It was one of those situations where it became extremely frustrating for Spencer to not have a solid adult in his life. It would be so much easier if he could just go to his Mom or Dad. If they would protect him as normal parents did. But he hadn't seen his Dad in the best part of five years. And his Mom, well, she wouldn't be able to handle this. 

Sure he had other relatives.  He had his aunt Ethel and Uncle Dan on his Moms side, but Ethel was a fragile person, just like his Mom. And well, Uncle Dan was what you could only politely describe as unreliable at his best. So, Doctor Vaughn, it was. It’s the only option he had.

Though now early November, the California sun still flooded the Caltech campus giving everything a golden glow. Spencer felt clammy and uncomfortable in his journey across campus, worrying the sleaves of his tattered burgundy jumper with his thumbs. By the time he had reached the juniper door of Vaugn’s office, he had worn a small hole in the left sleeve with his thumbnail. He stood and took a deep breath before rattling his fist off the safety glass panel of the door. Vaughn jumped up from his leather office chair, crossing his cramped office in a few deft skips.

_ “Hey, oh Spencer. Kid, you’re a little early kid, I was still eating my lunch” _

Vaughn had a ranch stain on his khaki tie and spoke through a mouthful of subway sandwich.

_ “Oh, sorry Doctor Vaughn. I can wait outside?” _

__

Spencer made a small, uncertain step towards the shabby fabric seats set out in the hallways makeshift waiting room.

“ _What? No, no. No. Come in, kid. Come on in. I’m almost done anyway, here, you want my cookie?”_

Vaughn waved a brown paper bag at Spencer as he lowered himself back into his office chair with a groan. Spencer politely declined with a shake of his head. Vaughn's permanently cluttered desk had piles of paperwork and books abandoned at each end, a board of Go already set up in the centre ready for their appointment. Vaughn was back up, sweeping crumbs off of his mustard corduroy trousers, and disposing of the remnants of what smelt like a tuna mayo sub into the office trash can.

_ “Okay Mr Reid, Sit. Sit.  _ _ How’s your week been?” _

There was a tone of playful glee in his voice.

_ “Well, Sir…” _

__

_ “Now, It's probably not professional at all, but I understand that you recently celebrated your birthday…” _

_ “Yeah, about that…” _

_ “And you know, it's not every day a young man turns fifteen you know..” _

_ “Doctor Vaughn …” _

_ “So, well, I’ve got you a gift. Don’t worry now, it ain’t much, I know a guy at Weinstock’s in The Paeso, so it was a good deal..” _

__

__

_ “I really need …” _

Vaughn was in the full overlook mode, ignoring Spencer’s meek attempts to catch his attention, a behaviour he often took on when flustered or over-excited. Out of the redwood drawer of his office desk, he retrieved a shabbily wrapped package. It looked as if Vaugn had wrapped duck-tape around the circumference of the package, distorting the baby pink _Birthday Princess_ paper crinkled underneath. Spencer turned it over in his hands a few times, looking quizzically up at Vaugn.

_ “Yeah I know, sorry about the paper. Em. Leftover from my niece's third birthday last month.” _

Vaughn stood with his hands planted on his hips, rocking back slightly on his brogue heels. An exultant grin breaking out on his moustache lined mouth. 

_ “Well, are you just going to stand there looking at it, or are you going to open it?” _

_ “Oh yeah, right.” _

This was not how Spencer had planned this interaction in his head. But none the less, he set about trying to wrangle the parcel open.

_ “Careful! You don’t want to… look that's it kid... you’ve got it now!” _

After a few moments of struggling against the ducktape wrapping, Spencer managed to retrieve what looked like a small, black cassette player and matching inner-earbuds. He looked back up to Vaugn again, surprised.

_ “It’s…” _

__

_ “It’s a Walkman! You know, like a portable cassette player? Now you can listen to whatever garbage - Boyz to Boyz - pop bands you kids are knocking about to these days on the go” _

Vaughn made vigorous air quotations while lamenting about today's music styles, screwing up his ageing features as he did so in a comical mockery of _“Today’s music”._

_ “Uh-huh” _

_ “My nephew’s about your age and he won’t stop bugging his mom for one. Apparently, it’s the in thing to have, you know. Trendy. He makes out like he might just croak if he doesn't get one for Christmas” _

_ “Th-thanks Doctor Vaugn, really, thank you, you didn’t need to..” _

__

__

_ “Don’t worry about it kid, now wanna see me absolutely crush you at Go?” _

Vaughn had finally settled back into he desk chair and motioned for Spencer to do the same.

_ “Actually, Doctor Vaugn, I have a problem..” _

__

__

_ “What’s up kid, you all out of your inhaler prescript… “ _

_ “No.” _

Spencer cut Vaugn off, clearly annoyed by the constant interruptions of his revelation. He needed to tell someone about the letters before he lost his nerve. For dramatic effect, he slapped the purple envelope and the book filled with a Halloween poem on the desk between them.

_ “Look Doctor Vaugn, I think, I think I might have a stalker.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this might actually turn into quite a long story. Would anyone be interested in that?
> 
> Also if this is too confusing or anyways you think I could improve -Let me know!!


	6. Violent Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The BAU team try and decode the mystery of Spencer's past.

**Present Day. BAU Offices. Quantico, Virginia.**

_“It sounds like there is a lot about the good doctor that we don’t know.”_

_“Yeah, you could say that.”_

Yesterday, JJ would have said she knew everything about Reid. What made him angry, sad, happy, even confused, although that didn't happen often. She always thrived on the fact that she knew things about Spencer that no one else did, and him vice versa. Best Friends. Spence was the only person who ever came close to filling the void that Roz had left behind in JJ.

_“Let’s get them all in date order, hopefully, that will help us get a little more context around what was going on in Reid’s life when they where originally sent. You said they go back more than a decade ago?”_

She knew he was scared of the dark because when he was really little he accidentally got stuck in the basement of his Grampa Reid’s house for a few hours and convinced himself the violent gurgles of the old houses plumbing system where monsters lurking to get him.

She knew he visited the exact same spot in the Library of Virginia on his very few days off work, right beside the coffee shop, spending hours researching things that interested him. Sometimes, she’d take Henry to visit him there on a Saturday and they’d sit, one reading a large tome of a book and the other Doctor Seuss.

She knew that his mom called him Crash because he was so unbelievably clumsy as a child he was always tumbling about their home. And then when he was a little older, she was so unbelievably lost in her delusions, when she would attack the person she loved most and then, later on, would ask if the bruises came from an act of inelegantly falling at school.

But she didn’t know about this.

_“JJ?”_

The rest of the team ripped JJ from her reflections, staring at her with expressions saturated by concern. They all knew how close the two of them were. Hotch, who had entered the room seconds ago, unannounced, locked eyes with her. Assessing her every micro-expression with his dark gaze.

_“If this is too much for you…”_

_“No, it's not. Let’s just get a good start on this so we can find Spence.”_ She paused for a second before continuing. _“ Find Spence and forget about all of this.”_

Her voice was made of steel, biting viciously at her teams attempt to baby her away from this. She couldn’t sit back and not work the case. She needed to make sure Spence was okay. She couldn’t lose another sibling. Her petite hands darted forward, snatching a pile of the letters out of the centre of the round table, eager to get started. Emily and Morgan had both already began ordering their stacks of from the dates neatly marked at the top of each letter. The team worked in apprehensive silence, covering the table in the violet envelopes. It took the best part of an hour to order each letter by date. Emily, now with her planted firmly on the back of one of the fabric chairs lining the table, let out a deep sigh before addressing the fretful pack of profilers before her.

_“I think we’ve got the basic chronological order established now. The first letter sent on the 15th of September 1994, last letter sent last week. That’s a span of what, fifteen years?”_

_“With breaks. For example, six months between the end of 94’ and the beginning of 95’. Then for twelve whole years. No letters received from the end of 1997 until six months ago. That’s quite a cool-down period.”_

_“Could be explained if the unsub was incarcerated? Or hospitalised, long term stay in an institution of some kind?”_

Rossi pursed his lips, mulling over the possibilities that could have caused what profiled like a seriously obsessive individual to go cold turkey on their obsession for over a decade. He leaned on the back of his chair, trying to make sense of the whole scenario. What interested him the most was the first break in communication. If the unsubs obsession has reached the point of physically making contact with their desired object – and doing so for some time – why would they stop for a prolonged period? And then start back up again? It didn’t fit the typical profile of an obsessive that he had developed many years before.

_“Pass me that letter from November 1994, the last one, before the six-month break.”_

Morgan leaned over the desk, lightly throwing the letter over to Rossi, intrigue sparkling in his dark eyes. Rossi could feel the team's stares boring into him as he made quick work of unfolding the thick sheets of yellowing paper that had been crammed inside. He felt his lips knit into a frown as he scanned the contents of the letter.

_“I thought you would be smarter than this. I thought you would understand. I am the only one who looks out for you. Not that cheap dime-store councillor. Doctor Vaughn is paid to look out for you and does an abysmal job of it even then. You are a child who needs to be looked after, taught right from wrong. He is trying to mislead you with frivolous gifts. This lack of loyalty will not go unpunished. Speak with law enforcement again about me and tougher punishments will be imposed. This is your first warning.”_

Rossi rubbed his eyes after completing his rendition the first paragraph on the page in front of him. Setting the page back in its space on the table, Rossi finally met the stares of his team. 

_“Well, that certainly gives us some insight into the character behind all of this.”_

_“If Spence went to the police about this …”_

_“Then there is a case file somewhere deep in the Pasadena Police Department’s records. Don’t worry my doves I am on it. I am so on it, I’m actually inside it, I’m all about it.”_

Garcia had risen from her seat and was already rapidly exciting the room, racing towards her personal IT dungeon. Hotch called out to her as she was scurrying out of the doorway.

_“Garcia. Get what you can on this Doctor Vaughn too.”_

Garcia acknowledged his request with a quick nod and a _“sir”_ before continuing to shuffle to her self proclaimed lair at the other end of the bullpen. Leaving the five profilers in the room, eyes trained on the lines of purple envelopes that decorated the circular table. The air felt static with tension, the uncomfortable silence between the rooms five inhabitants felt like a dead weight, pulling them down to the bottom of the ocean. They all knew what they had to do. None of them liked it. Morgan was the first to break out of the strained stillness.

_“If this was any other case, we would work the victimology first. Before we even looked at the unsub.”_

Noncommital nods of the agreement were the closet thing he got to a response from his team members. JJ’s eyes were drilled on the floor. Morgan continued his train of thought.

_“Look, I know better than the anyone else how painful it is to have all your dirty laundry out to dry in public. But we need to look into Reid, and I think most of our answers into what’s going on with him right now is in these letters.”_

_“You said there would be a reason why Spence wouldn’t want us to read them. Why he wouldn’t come to us..”_

JJ finished off uncertainly, looking at the mosaic of envelopes on the table in front of her, hands outstretched gesturing vaguely towards the offending pieces of paper. Everyone looked uneasy. Emily caught JJ’s eye, giving her an understanding nod.

_“I think going into this, we need to agree. No judgment on what we find in these letters. JJ’s right. If Reid didn’t want to come to us about them, then, there must be something he wanted to keep hidden. Agreed?”_

Murmurs of agreement came from the four remaining profilers formed a resounding yes. Hotch cleared his throat.

_“We work the case, keep it under wraps and find Reid. Anything else, we deal with later.”_ His eyes surveyed the room of profilers, confirming with small, efficient nods that they agreed with him _, “Morgan, you take the first six letters. JJ, Prentis, work the letters starting after the six-month break. Rossi and I will deal with the most recent. Note down anything you think will be helpful in developing our profile.”_

Morgan grabbed the first envelope in his allotted pile, preparing himself to read the first words this psycho ever sent the kid. He could feel every muscle in his body tense, his jaw locked. He flipped the envelope over in his hands, scanning for any outward marks that would act as evidence. His mind idly replayed the worst few days of his life in Chicago. His arrest. Confronting Carl. The looks in his team’s eyes when they looked at him afterwards. His stomach knotted itself tightly, he had to dig his nails into his palm just to keep himself in the moment. Focused on the task at hand. Before he could finish the first paragraph, Garcia came bursting back into the meeting room brandishing the remote to the TV’s placed in the centre of the rooms. With the click of a button on the remote control, the TV’s blinked open, broadcasting what looked like a scanned copy of a dated police report.

_“Ask and you shall receive my lovelies, before your eyes right now is the copy of a police report filed by a teenage 187. Our Boy Wonder filed criminal harassment report just after his fifteenth birthday, apparently, he had been receiving letters for a few months by this point …”_

_“They sent him a birthday present.”_

_“Yes, a creepy Halloweenie poem book,”_ Garcia clicked another button on her control to reveal some evidence locker photos of a small, hand-illustrated pocketbook, _“It must have spooked Reid because a few days after it arrived he filed the report.”_

_“Typical stalking case. No threats or physical contact made, the case wasn’t persued”_

JJ sounded worn out, she continued to flick through the report in case it had any details that would help find Spence, but it was a drill she’d seen played out a thousand times before in obsessional cases. No physical threat made? No action is taken. Morgan let out a disgruntled laugh at the predictable injustice of it all.

“ _Cop’s make it sound like the kid was complaining about fan mail,”_ Morgan began reading a small section of the investigator's notes to the other profilers in the room, his voice incredulous _, “Admittance of regularly receiving communication via post from strangers due to public interest in his position at the university. Did they even bother to read the letters? The kid was fifteen years old.”_

Morgan threw his case file back on the table, frustration clearly evident in his posture. Hotch caught his eye and pressed his lips together into a tight, thin line. He then swapped his attention to Garcia.

_“What did you find on Vaughn?”_

Garcia began fiddling with the buttons on the clicker again before the image of an elderly man flicked up on the screen.

_“Deceased as of three years ago, unfortunately. He was a childhood psychologist in the seventies and eighties, before taking a position as a senior councillor at Caltech. He was our boy wonders main point of contact when he was underage at college, they had regular meetings together for the first two years of Spencer’s college career…”_

_“And after that?”_

_“He retired, his entire house burned down in some kind of freak accident. It severely injured his wife. After that, he apparently re-evaluated his entire life and moved back to his home state of New York.”_

_“Garcia, when was this?”_

_“Three weeks after the police report was filed.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me some feedback!


	7. Violet New Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer finds a new way of coping with the stress of his stalker.

The letter came shortly after Doctor Vaughn had driven Spencer to the central police precinct and sat by his side as they filed a report about the letters. The small interview room they sat in was cramped and dark. The airconditioning was on its last legs, Spencer’s head was swimming with the humidity and his hands where uncomfortably sticky with sweat. He kept wiping them on his trousers to try and dry them off, but moments later he felt like his fingers were glued together again. Doctor Vaughn kept a protective hand on his shoulder the entire time Spencer sat in that room. And it was hours. 

_When did you receive the lesson? Have they spoken to you in person? Have they threatened to hurt you? How often do you receive the letters? Who have you noticed hanging about you? Have you noticed someone following you? No one? Think, really think? Did you receive any other letters that might be from them? How many letters do you receive a month? And you don’t know all of them? What’s different about this one?_ _The tone, but you just said they’ve never threatened you? Calm down._ _And they defiantly haven’t approached you in person?_

In the end, Spencer was given a number to call if he did ever get approached by the person or receive a threat. The detective insisted on writing it down for him despite the claim that he would remember without and sent him on his way. Spencer’s whole body felt numb walking out of the doors of the precinct, he felt vulnerable and more importantly, he felt like this was an actual danger to him for the first time. Seeing other people reactions to the letters had made this feel so much more real to Spencer.

On the trip back to the Caltech campus, Vaughn took him to a crappy diner just off the highway. He looked at Spencer with pitty filled eyes, lamenting that he was absolutely starved and knew this was the best place in town. Spencer tried to meet his gaze with a reassuring smile but fell significantly short of doing so. Both ordered a cheeseburger special with a pot of coffee for the table. Spencer sat and picked at the cheap red vinyl booth with his fingers, his converse clad foot bouncing rapidly off the scuffed laminate flooring.

_“Listen, Kid, it might not seem like they do but…”_

Spencer struggled to keep his breathing calm. Despite his best efforts to regulate himself, his chest hitched uncomfortably. The waitress placed their meals in front of them.

_“they do. You know, they must handle things like this all the …_

He could feel tears stinging his eyes, threatening to spill down his cheeks. He had to strain his face to keep them at bay. He took a bite of the burger in an attempt to distract himself, but his mouth was so dry. It hurt to swallow. His stomach flipped.

_“damn time….Spencer, are you…”_

Before he could finish his thought, Spencer had lifted himself out of the booth on shaky legs. Clamping his hand over his mouth, he sprinted toward the bathroom, leaving Vaughn sitting in the booth with an expression of bewilderment on his slack-jawed features. They didn’t finish their meal, instead, Vaughn threw a few dollar bills on the table and drove Spencer home in unnerved silence.

No letters were received the following week. Careful optimism oozed out of him. Maybe, just maybe, talking to the police had scared them off. Then another violet delivery. Slid under his dorm-room door. Everything was different this time. The writer no longer was acting like he was Spencer’s friend. He was angry. He said he was going to punish him. Anguish replaced the optimism that had enthralled him with a vengeance. Spencer felt physically sick.

Vaughn. He needed to see Doctor Vaughn. His weekly appointment wasn’t for another few days, but he knew he had to see him right now. This was a threat. They had to take him seriously this time. 

Cycling recklessly through the sun-drenched campus, Spencer weaved through the throngs of students leaving their last classes of the day. His whole body felt hollow and he struggled to keep his sweaty grip steady on the worn-down handlebars of the bike. Twice, he almost skidded off onto the red brick paving as he raced through campus. 

He didn’t even slow down to lock the bike against a railing, hastily throwing it down at the base of the stairs leading to the entrance of the student welfare offices. The entire office was dead, only a singular office clerk idled at the reception desk. Spencer slammed the glass doors open, breaking into a run down the familiar corridors, grinding to a halt outside of Doctor Vaughn’s office door. He didn’t bother to knock, bursting into Vaughn’s empty office. 

He looked around for a few seconds, his breath ragged from his race over. He had to plant his hands on the edge of the cluttered desk to support himself, fearing that his legs were going to give way at any given moment. Something felt off, bubbling uneasily in the base of his stomach.

Spencer willed himself to move again, treading back towards the main office, keeping an observant eye on his surroundings.

_“Doctor Vaughn – where is he?”_

He knew his tone was abrupt, rude even. His father might have told him to watch his god damned manors if he was still around. But he didn’t care. The clerk looked up at him through her wire-framed glasses, placing the papers she was shuffling around back on her desk.

_“Doctor Vaughn has taken a few personal days. Did you have an appointment?”_

_“No. Is he okay? Like, have you heard from him today?”_

The lady pursed her lips and began to blandly explain that she was not at liberty to reveal details about coworkers to strangers, but Spencer had not been in the mood to listen. He was frantic.

_“Is Doctor Vaughn okay? I think he’s in danger. Or I think I’m in danger. I just really need to talk to Doctor Vaughn okay? I need to talk to him right now.”_

Spencer could feel hot tears threatening to spill out of his eyes. His breath was uneven, his legs threatened to fold underneath him at any moment. The desperation must have been clear on his face because pity flooded her petite features.

_“Sweetie, Doctor Vaughn is fine. His wife inhaled a lot of smoke but she’ll be…”_

_“His wife what?”_

_“Inhaled smoke. From the fire?”_ Witnessing the fear and confusion mounting in Spencer’s face she realised she had made a mistake _“I’m sorry, I thought by the way you where…I thought you knew…”_

Spencer didn’t hear the rest of the clerk's spluttering explanation because he had already slung his satchel back over his shoulder and stalked out of the reception area, cycling back home in a state of absolute terror. On his way, he made a resolve with himself.

He couldn't tell another soul about these letters. No one else would get hurt because of him.

It took two full weeks later before the campus police came and broke down the flimsy door to his cramped dorm room.

Two weeks where he didn't go to class. Didn't turn up to the weekly check-in with his new welfare officer. Didn't read anything. Didn’t sleep. Didn't respond to any of the concern knocks on his door from LA's. Rarely ate anything. Rarely moved out of the single bed in the corner of his room. He just lay down, huddled in a small ball under his duvet in varying states of awareness. Any energy he had possessed in the past seemed to have zapped out of him. Any prior need for social contact lost. His heart seemed to pound in his chest constantly. The dreary silence of the darkened room seemed to roll over him, making him feel nauseous, breaking him out in cold sweats. He was worried for Doctor Vaughn. He was worried for his mom. He was worried for himself. 

He didn't even hear the steady bangs on the door. Or the calm warnings that the door was going to be broken down if he didn't respond to them. It was the sudden bang of a body being rammed against the plywood door and the lock snapping open that finally dragged him out of his borderline catatonic state. His already unsteady heart rate spiked, causing painful constrictions in his chest. Blind panic overtook his logical thought and he screamed out. They were here. 

As the officer made a step towards him, Spencer tumbled out of his position on the bed, crumpling on the floor. His breathing had rapidly become unmanageable, it felt like he was drowning. His nails dug into the front of his knees as he constricted himself into a ball, drawing blood. Warm tears streamed down Spencer's gaunt face. 

_"Son? Son? Can you hear me? Son?"_

Spencer's eyes moved up, evaluating the figure in front of him. Slowly, realisation dawned on Spencer. This man was not the person behind the violet envelopes. He was safe. It was okay. He was okay. Trying to steady his breath which had now become violent gasps, Spencer fumbled for his dresser. The officer was quietly radioing for medical help, then turned trying to find what Spencer was looking for.

_"My....My...Inhal... Inhaler.."_

Spencer struggled to force out the words, his hand blindly grabbing at the jumble that had accumulated on his dresser over the last two weeks of neglect, before everything went dark for him.

Six hours in Huntington ER treatment area later and Spencer felt bone-weary. Under the too bright florescent lights. In a too cold paper gown. Spencer sat with high mismatched sock-clad feet dangling off the hospital gurney. He had to squint his bespeckled eyes, trying to concentrate on the information being relayed by the man in the white coat sat in the chair in front of him. 

Alprazolam once daily for Anxiety. 

Lorazepam once daily for Insomnia.

Fluoxetine twice daily for Depression.

Spencer ran his hands through his now truly unruly hair, tugging at the knots with his boney fingers. He assessed the three bright transparent bottles held by the young doctor and felt a deep sense of shame in the pit of his stomach. Deep in the back of his mind, he had the dreadful thought that this must be how his mom felt.

For the first few weeks, Spencer was hesitant about taking the pills that lived in his dresser drawer, rammed somewhere at the back. But, years of begging his mother to take her medication, to listen to her doctor's advice, to look after her health, had not left him unaffected. Eventually, he dug out the prescription that lay abandoned in his dresser and lined them up. Dutifully, he popped the cap off one bottle and carefully dug out the first pill. He caught his reflection glaring back at him as he popped the violet pill in his mouth and dry swallowed it.

He'd never felt anything quite like it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Found this really difficult to write but love exploring the idea of Spencer at collage
> 
> Please leave reviews!


	8. Violet Evenings

He hadn't received a letter in five months and three days.

He had been on the lavish cocktail prescribed by the ER doctor for the same amount of time.

The pills helped, but only a little. It didn’t mean that he felt any better about the situation. When he took the time to consider the whole thing, he felt a whole lot worse about it. The radio silence from the person writing him was unnerving. The events of the last few months as a whole had been unnerving. Though the logical side of his sharp mind told him there was no solid link between what had happened and the letters, the silence spoke louder to Spencer than any actual admittance of guilt. He almost wanted to receive a letter again. Better the devil you know.

He delt with the anxiety by throwing himself into his studies. It was a tried and true technique from his childhood. When his mom started to loosen her grip on reality when he was little, he would push himself to read bigger and more complicated books. When his dad left, he worked to complete his high school education in two years, at the age of twelve. A newsworthy record in his home state. Now, at fifteen he was working every hour of consciousness on complicated mathematical equations and theoretical underpinnings much too complicated for even seasoned academics. 

He had privately experimented with larger doses of his medication as a way of making the social interactions less taxing on him. He found the prescribed dose would get him through most normal days. An extra half pill would suffice for occasions where he was required to heavily interact with others. And secretly, on his own, he found the true euphoria that could be felt by crushing up and inhaling his little pills. 

Spencer knew it was bad. 

Very bad.

He could reel off statistics of prescription drug abuse and the dangers of an overdose at a moments notice. But his research had never prepared him for the true thrill of the emotional numbness. He no longer felt like the weird awkward little kid. He sailed through situations, feeling no shame or embarrassment. He felt free. And he was smart enough to never take it too far. 

Smart enough to trick everyone around him too. He would float freely through weekly meetings with the absent Ms Khan. Agree with things it was good to agree with. Show disdain for things that he ought to disagree with. Smile and nod at all the right places with lectures and colleagues. He thought he put on a pretty good show. Maybe he was in the wrong field. This was Oscar-worthy shit. Of course, even with the best performances, there are always critiques. Someone was bound to see through the façade eventually.

_“What’s going on with you”_

_“What?”_

_“What’s going on with you? Your eyes are glazed over. You’re not listening.”_

Spencer felt like he living in soft cotton wool. He looked over at Professor Humphrey, the supervisor of his Engineering thesis, quirking his eyebrows at him.

_“Yes, I am. You were just going over the calculations I’d done based on category theory. You think I need to re-evaluate estimations made….”_

He was cut off as he began to parrot Humphrey’s exact words from the last few minutes.

_“Okay. You’re not engaged though. I have to say I’d heard amazing things from my friends in the mathematics department. One TA physically wouldn't stop going on about you and all your supposed genius. I was expecting a more…”_ his hands wafted the air as he took his time to select the correct words, _“Conscientious student.”_

Truth be told, Spencer and Humphrey didn’t click. The older man was very tough on all of his students but constantly expected perfection from the fifteen-year-old in front of him. The man put Spencer on edge and currently his clipped tone sparked a flame of animosity in him.

_“Well, I am sorry if I don’t live up to your expectations of me. But, I think you will find we are here to discuss my work on p-Order conic constraints. If you have any opinions on that I am more than happy to hear them. However, your opinion on my attitude is…”_

_“Spencer. We both know you are very easily one of the academically best students here. But you're not pushing yourself. You have no drive to stretch your mind beyond what it can already do. You get by on your natural ability, and in my eyes that makes you know better than a community college flunkie, so you can drop that attitude of superiority.”_

Spencer was surprised at the evenness of his matter of fact tone. The words bit at Spencer as his mind worked to process a sentiment that he had never heard. His entire life he had been constantly praised and adored for his intellectual ability. But yet, here he was being told that he wasn't good enough. After all the work he had put in.

He locked his hazel eyes with Humphreys piercing blue as the man continued his steady dissever of Spencer’s work ethic.

_“You might be the youngest person in this department. You might be the smartest. But that will only get you so far. Soon enough there will be someone younger, someone brighter, someone who is willing to engage with others and push their work to the next level. So until your ready to do that, you can leave my office."_

He was left mouth agape, staring at the hostile professor in front of him. Words swam in his head as he struggled to form a coherent sentence to retort with. After a few seconds of unintelligible muttering, Spencer rose from his seat, and hastily grabbed his workbook off the desk between them, sinking it into his satchel. 

He swiftly left the room, letting the door clang shut behind him aggressively. 

As he stalked down the hallway, he heard the offending professor's door click open again, as Humphrey called down to him once again.

_ “Oh and Spencer - If you think you’re fooling everyone, you’re not.” _

* * *

Later that evening, Spencer sat absently spinning on the tattered office chair in the corner of his dorm, legs pulled tight to his chest, one hand held his jaw tightly while the other held a book he wasn’t concentrating on. He was still tightly wound from the afternoons' altercation with Humphrey not even the familiar passages from the aged Sherlock Holmes collection he held could make him feel better.

Frustration flooded through his whole body as he chewed viciously on his thumbnail. He had been bullied by kids in high school, sure, and maybe his dad didn’t always speak to him in the nicest way. He was used to being taunted and teased about his appearance, social skills, family, supposed nerdiness, a whole plethora of quirks that made him an easy target. 

But he had never been told he wasn’t smart enough. 

Never been disrespected by another academic. His blood boiled in his veins. Every few minutes his eyes would flicker to the orange bottles lined up neatly on his desk. He needed to calm himself down, and he knew a way he could do it…

It’s not a smart decision to ritually abuse prescription medication. He knew that. Could he respect that?

The answer to that question scared him. Under the sudden realisation that he wasn’t going to get any joy out of sitting in the cramped room, replaying the situations over and over and over in his head, Spencer hastily sprang out of the chair and grabbed a faded hoodie before heading out into the night. He needed to walk. Blow off steam.

Out in the cool evening air, Spencer started to pace along the red brick-lined paths of the campus. It was getting dark, and the street lights had begun to flicker on, illuminating the road in front of him. He didn’t have anywhere particular in mind as a destination, just let his legs take him anywhere as he focused on trying to get his mind to unravel a little. 

The further he marched, the better he felt. It might have been half an hour, it might have been three full ones. Time seemed to lose its usual strict regulation as he let his feet guide him blindly across the sprawling campus. He chose to follow the winding paths at random, exploring bits of campus he had hardly seen before. It was a Friday night, so the only company he ran into on the pedestrianised road where students hurrying home to get ready for parties and ones already slightly buzzed on their way to them. He walked until he had passed all the departmental buildings, and the music from everyone's Friday night activities was lowered to a light hum, replaced by the constant chirping of crickets. 

He had reached a parking lot on the edge of campus, behind a dining hall that served the lecturing staff of the university. He swooped himself down on a concrete bench, suddenly spent from the evenings trek. He rested his head in hands, hunching over himself. Eyes shut over lightly, he hunched in the hot summer nights air contemplating his situation. 

If you’d asked him when he first came to CalTech he would find himself a statistic of recreational drug abuse in three short years, the object of a violent stranger's obsessions, an academic disappointment, would he of believed you? No, he thought, no he absolutely would not of. He was changing so much, he didn’t quite have a grasp on who he was anymore. He felt like his personal life was an impossible maze, and he was constantly getting lost and frustrated in it. 

_“Waiting for me, are we?”_

Spencer’s head snapped up to survey who had just spoken to him. His head whipped around trying to locate the voice before it settled on a figure over to his right. Humphrey. He stood with his sporting jacket slung over his shoulder, fiddling with a set of car keys in his hands. His cheeks were ruddy, and he scrubbed them lightly as he stepped towards Spencer. At a loss for words, Spencer let out a few jumbled noises and sprang to his feet trying to create more space between him and Humphrey.

_“No?”_

It came out lamely, his hands dangled pathetically at his sides.

_“Relax Spencer”_ Humphrey let out a small chuckle at the tense boy in front of him _“Jesus, relax.”_ He took another step towards Spencer, giving him a kind smirk. As he reached the bench, he gently placed himself down and grabbed a packet of cigarettes out of his trouser pocket. He offered the pack in Spencer’s direction, chuckling again at the awkward rejection that came from Spencer.

_“Listen, about earlier. Look, I’m a dick, I’m a dickhead”_ Spencer let out a snort at Humphrey’s self-deprecating statement. _“Would you sit down? I’m trying to apologise here.”_

_“You don’t need to…”_

Spencer warily placed himself down on the edge of the bench, as far away from Humphrey as humanly possible. Humphrey took a long drag of his cigarette, cutting Spencer’s half-hearted protest short.

_“No, I probably do. I mean, what are you, sixteen, sure you’re going to have a bad attitude. You’re just a hormonal kid. When I was your age I was filled with sullen teenage rage.”_

_“I’m fifteen.”_

_“Same Difference.”_

There was silence for a few minutes as the two of them sat awkwardly at each end of the bench. Spencer silently counted the seconds in his head. Humphrey continued to smoke the cigarette, sending puffs of smoke into the now cooling night air. Eventually, Humphrey stubbed the cigarette out and flicked the stub away, scooting himself closer to Spencer. The smell of tobacco smoke and red wine overwhelmed the younger man’s senses. 

_“You know, every Friday there’s a meal for distinguished scholars in that dining hall_ ”, Humphrey sloppily gestured towards the vast building from which he came. Spencer knew this. He had been invited many times to attend. _“It’s like usual stuffy academic shit. Someone talks about how prestigious we all are, we eat some dry chicken, drink some fancy wine. Everyone puts on their best serious, smart, pretentious scholarly faces.”_ He finished out his sentence with a sarcastic twang, letting out another dry laugh. He readjusted his posture and turned his head to face Spencer.

_“Look, next week I’ll take you, as an apology. You can schmooze with some of the best minds here. Old Professor Feynman can bore you with his work on the Quantum Hall Effect. If you’re a well behaved little genius you might even get a sip of the Chateauneuf De Pauf that gets doled out.”_

Humphrey looked at Spencer with a lazy grin. The younger boy kept his eyes trained down on his hands, it took him a second to raise the courage to return the mans’ off-kilter gaze. 

_“I don’t find Professors Feynman’s Quantum Hall Effect work boring.”_

Spencer looked up to meet Humphreys eye, returning his smirk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave reviews it makes my day!


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